Maisie Dobbs

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Simon grinned and looked into Maisie’s eyes.

  “Well, um, well . . .”

  Maisie looked sideways at her companions, who were continuing with their tea quietly in order to listen to the conversation. She caught Iris’s eye and saw the other woman smile, nod her head and mouth the word “Go.” Maisie turned back to Simon.

  “Yes, Captain Lynch. Dinner would be lovely. And, yes, actually I do have to be chaperoned, so my friends will be dining nearby.”

  “Right you are. Let’s make it an early one then, I’ll meet you in the lobby at six o’clock. In fact, I’ll meet you all in the lobby at six o’clock!”

  Simon bowed, bade good-bye to the nurses, smiled at Maisie, and moved to go.

  “Oh, and by the way—that uniform—it’s almost as stunning as the blue silk dress.”

  And then he was gone.

  Maisie took her place once again, amid the giggles of Iris, Dottie, and Bess.

  “And what silk dress might that be, Dobbs?”

  “You kept that one quiet, didn’t you?”

  “Sure you want a chaperone?”

  Maisie blushed at the teasing, which she knew would continue for some time. She was about to explain that Simon was only a friend of a friend when an RAMC officer approached their table.

  “Dobbs, White, Dornhill, and Rigson? Good. Orders are here, and travel warrants. Sorry. You won’t be going to the same place. White and Dornhill together at the base hospital. Dobbs and Rigson, you’re going to the Fourteenth Casualty Clearing Station— enjoy it here while you can.”

  And with that he was gone, clutching several large manila envelopes under his arm while negotiating his way through the busy dining room, in search of other nurses on his list.

  The four women sat in silence for a few minutes, looking at the brown manila envelopes.

  “Well, he’s a bundle of joy, isn’t he?” said Iris, taking a knife from the table and slicing open the envelope.

  “Dobbsie, my girl, we are indeed off to the Fourteenth Casualty Clearing Station, near Bailleul, like Cheerful Charlie over there said. A CCS, that’s as near to the battlefield as nurses are allowed, isn’t it?”

  “And we’re at the base hospital here in Rouen, so we won’t be going far, will we, Bess?”

  “Well, there we are, then. Let’s make the most of it, that’s what I say. And let’s get some sleep.”

  Iris dabbed at her mouth with her table napkin, and a waiter scurried over to pull out her chair.

  “Yes, good idea. At least one of us needs her sleep if she’s to be walking out with an officer!”

  “Oh, Dottie, he’s just—”

  Maisie rushed to defend herself as the women left the table, but her protestations were lost amid the teasing and banter.

  Remembering the events of her dinner with Simon Lynch took Maisie’s mind off the journey. First by train, then by field ambulance along mud-filled and rutted roads, Maisie and Iris traveled to the casualty clearing station where they would be based until due for leave in four months’ time.

  As the train moved slowly along, though it was still light, Maisie had a sense of darkness descending. Gunmetal gray clouds loomed overhead, splashes of rain streaked across the windows, and when the train stopped at a station, the sound of heavy artillery in the distance seemed to echo and reverberate along the tracks. Even the birds had been silenced by the mighty orchestra of battle. With the sights and sounds of war around them, people in the landscape loomed with a stark intensity.

  Maisie watched from the train window as lines of people trudged along, and more lines of battered humanity appeared to be strung out into the distance. Whole families were leaving communities close to the battlefields, seeking a place of safety with relatives in other towns and villages. Yet the river of civilian evacuation was a stream compared to the long column of marching soldiers, battle weary in weathered uniforms. Young men with faces prematurely aged, showing fatigue and fear as well as a determined levity.

  What’s the use of worrying?

  It never was worthwhile, so

  Pack all your troubles in your old kit-bag,

  And smile, smile, smile.

  The marching songs rang out, and as their train passed by, Iris and Maisie leaned out of the slow-moving carriages, waved to the soldiers, and joined in their songs.

  It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go;

  It’s a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know;

  Good-bye Piccadilly, farewell Leicester Square,

  It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, but my heart’s right there.

  With a final wave, Iris and Maisie pulled up the window, and tried to make themselves comfortable again on the prickly wool train seating.

  “Funny that your young man’s not that many miles from us, isn’t it, Dobbs?” Iris looked inquiringly at Maisie when they were settled.

  “Oh, for goodness sake, he’s not my young man. He’s just an old friend of a very good friend of mine. It really is a coincidence that I saw him at all.”

  “That’s as may be, Dobbsie, but I saw the way you two were looking at each other, and I’d say that you were a-courting. Right pair of turtle doves, if you ask me.”

  “Nonsense. And don’t you go repeating this silliness either, Iris. Please. I hardly know him—and I could get into trouble!”

  “Blue silk dress eh?”

  Iris continued to tease Maisie.

  Iris, Dottie, and Bess had taken a table next to Maisie and Simon at dinner, lest it be thought that she was dining completely without a chaperone. But surprising even herself, Maisie hardly noticed other people in the hotel dining room. From the time he had greeted her in the lobby, at six o’clock as arranged, and held out his arm to her, Maisie and Simon Lynch had eyes only for each other.

  Now Maisie lowered her eyelids and feigned sleep, which effectively silenced Iris. Left in peace, she was able to envision the dining room again, the waiters running to and fro, and the busyness of people enjoying last farewells or a few days respite from the business of war. And there, at the table with her, was Simon.

  Simon who made her laugh with his jokes, putting her at ease. Simon who asked her why she had become a nurse, and when she told the story of Enid, leaned across and took her hand. “She must have meant a lot to you, your friend.”

  “Yes, yes, she did . . . she made me think about all sorts of things. While I was busy with my head in a book, she would bring me down to earth with a thud. Yes . . . she made me reconsider my opinions on more than one occasion.”

  Simon did not release Maisie’s hand, and for a moment their eyes met again and they were silent. Abashed, Maisie pulled her hand away and took up her fork. She poked at her food.

  “I hope I didn’t embarrass you. I, I didn’t think—”

  “Oh no. That’s all right.”Maisie blushed.

  “It’s a strange thing, war. Maisie, you must prepare yourself for what you are going to see. This past year . . . the Somme . . . I cannot tell you what injuries the men suffer. As a doctor I was trained to deal with one surgical case at a time: I operated on a leg, or a chest, or an arm. But these men are brought in with multiple gaping wounds, I—”

  Simon stopped speaking and reached for his glass of claret, which he gripped but did not pick up. He stared into the wine, at the deep red liquid, and then closed his eyes. As he did so, Maisie saw again the lines that crept from the edges of his eyelids to his temples, the creases on his forehead, and the dark circles above his cheekbones.

  “I came here thinking I could save every one of them, but half the time—” Simon hesitated, swallowed deeply, and looked directly at Maisie.

  “It’s so very good to see you, Maisie. It reminds me of how it was before I left England. How I felt about being a doctor. And how very much I hoped that I would see you again.”

  Maisie blushed again but smiled at Simon.

  “Yes, Simon. I am glad too.”

  Without thinking she reached
for his hand, which he took and gripped tightly. Suddenly aware of the proximity of other diners, Maisie released her hold, and they took up their knives and forks.

  “Now then, tell me all about Lady Rowan. I’ve heard of her, of course. She has quite a reputation as a staunch supporter of the suffragettes. And I’ve heard that Lord Julian is an absolute saint— although I doubt he has much time to worry about what she’s up to, now that he’s at the War Office.”

  Conversation slipped into the exchanging of stories, of opinions and observations, and by the time dinner was over, Maisie noticed that they had spoken of their dreams, of what they would do “when the war’s over.”

  In that moment she remembered Maurice, walking with her in the orchard one day while at Chelstone, as she broke the news that she had requested a deferment of her place at Cambridge, that she had enlisted at the London Hospital.

  She remembered him looking into the distance and speaking, very quietly, almost to himself.“Such is the legacy of war . . . the discarded dreams of children . . . the waste. The tragedy.”

  Simon looked at his watch.“Well, sadly, Maisie, I must go. I have meetings while I’m here, I’m afraid. So much for leave, eh?”

  “Yes, I have to go, too. We set off early tomorrow morning.”

  As Maisie placed her white linen table napkin alongside her plate, Simon watched her intently.“Would you mind very much if I wrote to you? It may take a while, but letters can be sent up the line. I’ll work out something.”

  “Yes, that would be lovely. Please write.”

  Simon rose to pull out Maisie’s chair, and as he did so Maisie noticed her three friends at an adjoining table, all holding coffee cups to their lips and looking at her over the rims of the cups. She had forgotten they were there.

  In the lobby Simon once again made a sweeping bow. “You may be clad in that wonderfully practical nursing attire, Miss Dobbs, but in my eyes you will forever be wearing a stunning blue silk dress.”

  Maisie shook hands with Simon, and bade him good-bye before joining the three nurses standing directly behind her, and doubtless waiting to begin teasing her once again.

  Maisie and Iris saw the tents in the distance, a musty afternoon cordite-laden fog lingered overhead, and a heavy ground mist was moving up and around them.

  “I’m freezing just looking at that lot, and it’s nowhere near winter yet,” said Iris.

  “I know what you mean. Looks bleak, doesn’t it?”

  Maisie pulled her cape around her body, though the day was not that cold.

  The main tents had giant red crosses painted on top, and beyond were bell tents that were home to the nursing contingent of the casualty clearing station. The ambulance moved slowly along the rutted road, and as they came closer to the encampment, it was clear that they were in the midst of receiving wounded.

  The ambulance pulled alongside the officers’ tent, where records were kept and orders given. All around them people moved quickly, some shouting, others carrying fresh supplies. Iris and Maisie stepped down and had barely taken up their bags when a sister rushed up to them.

  “No time to dawdle. We need you now—time for the paperwork and receiving line later! Get your capes off, your aprons on, and report immediately to the main tent. It’s the deep end for you two.”

  Two hours later, as Maisie stood over a young man, cutting heavy uniform cloth away from an arm partially severed by shellfire, Maisie remembered Simon’s words:“You must prepare yourself for what you are going to see.”

  Quickly pushing the still-fresh words to the back of her mind, and brushing the sweat from her forehead with the back of her bloodied hand, Maisie felt as if she were in the eye of the storm. The young soldier lying in front of her was conscious, watching her face all the time, searching for the glimmer of expression that would give away her assessment of his wounds. But the sisters of the London Hospital had taught their nurses well: Never, never ever change your expression at the sight of a wound—they’ll be looking into your eyes to see their future. Look straight back at them.

  As Maisie worked quickly, taking up disinfectant and swabs, a surgeon accompanied by nurses and medical orderlies moved from one soldier to the next, cutting away skin, bone and muscle, pulling shrapnel from the bodies of boys who had taken on the toil of men.

  The soldier continued to stare into Maisie’s eyes as she prepared his wounds for the surgeon’s knife. Following the trail of blood and flesh, Maisie cut away more uniform, taking her scissors to his trousers, pulling at the bindings around his lower leg. And as she felt her hand sink into the terrible injuries to his thigh, the soldier cleared his throat to speak.

  “Rugby player’s legs, those.”

  “I thought so,” said Maisie as she continued to work on his leg, “You can always tell the rugby players.”

  “Nurse, nurse,” the soldier reached out toward her with his uninjured hand,“Nurse, could you hold my hand?”

  And as Maisie took his hand in hers, the young man smiled.

  “Thank you, nurse.”

  Suddenly Maisie was aware that someone was bending back the soldier’s fingers and moving his arm to his side, and she looked up at the nursing sister in charge. An army chaplain placed his hand on her shoulder for barely a second before lifting it to perform last rites over the young soldier’s not-yet-cold body, while two stretcher-bearers waited to remove him to allow room for more wounded.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—”

  “No time for sorry,” said the sister. “He’s been gone less than a minute anyway. You did all you could. Now then, there’s work to do here. No time to stop and think about it. Just got to get on with it. There’s plenty more waiting outside that need your helping hand.”

  Brushing back a stray hair with the back of her hand once again, Maisie prepared the table as best she could for the next soldier.

  “’Allo, Nurse. Going to make me all better, are you?” said the man as the stretcher bearers quickly but carefully placed him on the table.

  Maisie looked straight into the man’s eyes and saw intense pain masked by the attempt at humor. Taking up scissors and swabs, along with the pungent garlic juice used to disinfect wounds, she breathed deeply and smiled.

  “Yes. I’m going to make you all better, young man. Now then, hold still.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Maisie awoke in the tent she shared with Iris. Snuggling under her blankets, she looked over at her friend and, in the half sleep of early morning, thought for a moment that it was Enid, but realized that it was the bump of Iris’s behind forming a mound in the bed as she, too, curled herself against the early morning chill.

  She took a deep breath. The chill air notwithstanding, Maisie suddenly sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders as she did so. She must do everything in her power to keep a calm head, to brace herself for the day, and to prepare herself for the elements. Rain had started to fall again. Rain that soaked into the ground to form a stew of mud and filthy water that seeped up into the cloth of her long woolen dress, making it hang heavily against her ankles as she worked again and again to clean and bandage wounds. By the end of each day the mud had worked its way up to her knees, and time and time again she told herself that she was warm, really, that her feet felt dry, really. Then at night, she and Iris would hang up their dresses to allow the moisture to evaporate, and check each other’s bodies for the battlefield lice that seemed to know no defeat.

  “You first, Maisie,” said Iris, still clutching the bedcovers around her body.

  “You just don’t want to be the one to crack the ice.”

  “What ice?”

  “I told you, Iris, there was a layer of ice on the top of that water yesterday.”

  “No!”

  Iris turned over in her cot to look at Maisie, who sat cross-legged on her bed.

  “I don’t know how you can sit like that, Dobbs. Now then, are you telling me there was ice on the water? It’s not even proper winter yet.”

 
; “Yes. Even though it’s not proper winter.”

  Maisie took another deep breath, which, when exhaled, turned to steamy fog in front of her face. She cast the blanket aside and nimbly ran over to the water pitcher and bowl that stood on top of a wooden chest.

  “And the sitting in the morning—it’s what helps to keep me from freezing solid all day, Iris. It clears my head. You should try it!”

  “Hmmmph!”

  Iris turned over in bed and tried to ignore her cold feet.

  Maisie poked her finger into the water pitcher. She cracked the thin layer of ice as if tentatively testing a piecrust, then gripped the handle of the pitcher with both hands and poured freezing cold water into the bowl. Reaching over to the side of the chest, Maisie unhooked a flannel cloth, which she steeped in the water. After wringing it out, Maisie unbuttoned the front of her nightgown and washed first her face, then under her arms and up to her neck. Oh, what she would give for a bath! To sit in a deep bathtub filled with piping hot water and soap bubbles coming up to her ears.

  Again she plunged the cloth into the cold water, squeezed the excess water back into the bowl, and this time lifted her nightgown and washed between her legs and down to her knees. A nice hot bath. For hours. She wouldn’t come out for hours. She’d keep twiddling that hot tap with her big toe, and she wouldn’t come out until every last molecule of mud, blood, sweat, and tears had been washed away.

  Taking down her still-damp dress, which had been hanging from a wire she and Iris had rigged up inside the tent, Maisie checked every seam and in the hem for lice. It was the morning drill: Check for lice everywhere, and when you’ve finished checking, check some more, because lice are crafty little beggars. She dressed quickly, finally slipping a white armband with a red cross just above the elbow of her right sleeve, and taking out a fresh apron and attaching a silver watch pin to the left side of the bib. Along with the black leather document case, which now held her writing paper and letters received, the nurse’s watch was her talisman from home, a gift from Lady Rowan.